


Footsteps and Gravity

by Rhiannon87



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Varric's martyr complex, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon87/pseuds/Rhiannon87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric manages a lot of businesses, but none are so important-- or time-consuming-- as looking after his friends. My gift for the Dragon Age Holiday Cheer Valentine's Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footsteps and Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/gifts).



As a writer of “based mostly on truth” stories, Varric has learned how to read people. He has to—if an author can’t understand his character’s emotions and motivations, then the whole thing falls apart. And he knows that his friends aren’t characters out in the real world, but once they hit the paper… they’re something different. Versions of their real selves, but definitely not real.

So he’s learned to recognize Anders’s tells when they’re playing cards (so he can fold or call to give the poor man an edge) and the particular arch to Aveline’s brow when he’s coming dangerously close to crossing the line from quasi-legal to illegal. And, considering how often they come to visit, he’s learned to recognize their footsteps outside his door. Not just who they belong to, but what mood they’re in, signals as to whether or not he should pretend to be busy or if he should start moving towards the wine.

He gets a large glass of water when he hears Isabela's familiar hungover stagger outside the door. She never questions the appearance of the glass, just picks it up and drains it before slumping over on the table, head buried in her arms. Varric knows he's one of the few, if not the only, person that she'll show this weakness around. Oh, sure, she'll whine and moan about her post-drinking headaches to Anders in an attempt to get a healing spell or to Hawke in a bid for sympathy, but that's still an act. She can drop it if she wants to. But this, the morning after a rough night, Varric assumes is genuine.

“Have fun?” he asks, picking up his quill again and idly tapping the metal nib against the glass inkwell.

Isabela turns her head and smiles at him from behind the fall of her hair. “Of course, darling,” she says. “I wouldn't put myself through _this_ if the night before didn't make it worthwhile.”

Varric chuckles. Isabela heaves a sigh and pushes herself upright, then starts to finger-comb the tangles out of her hair. “Any exciting crime lined up for today?” he asks.

She laughs. “Why? Planning on doing a series about a radiant pirate and her flock of thieves?”

“Maybe. Might have to add in a love interest, though. Those sell.”

Isabela makes a faint noise of disgust. “Can't write a story without a romance, hm?”

“People like sex, my dear Rivaini,” he replies. “They just don't want to admit it, so there's gotta be romance too.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “If you must include a romance for the lovely pirate, make it a ginger, by-the-books guard who's irresistibly drawn to the pirate's beauty and charm. I want to see if Aveline’s head will explode.”

Varric laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry, but I don't want her to shut down my press with a criminal investigation. Again.”

“Be that way, then.” Isabela pushes herself to her feet with a groan. “I'm gonna go break into Hawke's house and see if Leandra will give me coffee. See you later.” She winks at Varric and saunters out of the room.

Varric's just finished breakfast when he hears the light patter of Merrill bounding up the stairs. It's her usual way of coming up to his suite, all smiles and energy, but this early in the morning can only mean one thing.

“Oh! Varric, thank goodness you're here, I got so _dreadfully_ lost on the way to the market!” Merrill shakes her head, braids swishing through the air, and smiles sheepishly. “I thought I knew the way so I left my twine at home, but one of the streets is shut down and I had to find another path and I ended up by the docks, and then I heard a man say he was making a delivery to Lirene's and I knew that was close to the Hanged Man so I followed him here, but now I'm all turned about and--”

“Okay, Daisy, take a breath,” Varric says, grinning, and holds up his hands to stem the tide of words. “Want me to walk you there?”

She shakes her head again. “I don't want to be a bother. I'm sure you're busy.”

“Nonsense!” Varric ignores the stacks of bills and requests from the merchant's guild on his desk as he walks past and to the door. “I need to get out into the fresh air, anyway. Too much time inside with letters from cranky dwarves and I start to forget I'm not in Orzammar.”

Merrill giggles. “Would they have such awful beer in Orzammar?” she asks as they walk down the stairs to the tavern.

Varric lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, Daisy,” he says, “it's _worse_.”

He deposits Merrill and her week's groceries safely back at her house a bit after noon, despite her insistence that he could leave her at the stairs to the alienage. (“What kind of gentleman would I be if I let a lady juggle all those baskets by herself?” he asks, because it's easier to leave a few coins on her bookshelf than sneak them into her pockets.) He picks up lunch on the way back to the Hanged Man, a hearty sandwich with lots of roast beef and mustard, and tries to figure out how much guild business he has to get done to keep the other members from beating down his door.

One of the guild members has beaten him to the punch, however, and is waiting in his suite when he gets back in. Varric spends far too much time placating the woman and convincing her that he really does care about the state of her caravans and the tariffs in Ostwick before she finally makes it out the door. He's so busy scowling at her retreating form that he almost misses the heavy footfalls that herald the entrance of a despondent Anders.

“Hey, Blondie,” he says as the mage side-steps the guildswoman.

Anders dredges up a painfully weak smile. “Hello, Varric,” he says. “Are you busy?”

“Not at all,” Varric lies. “Come on in.”

Anders steps inside and closes the door. “I, ah, just wanted to follow up on that lyrium shipment,” he says, pitching his voice lower. “I'm running a bit low on potions...”

Varric grimaces and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says. “It's not in yet. Can you make it another day or two?”

The other man nods. “It's not _quite_ dire yet,” he admits with a wry twist of his lips.

Varric chuckles lightly. He gives Anders a quick once-over, glances at his sandwich, and takes a shot in the-- well, not quite dark, because he's pretty sure he knows what the answer will be. “Hungry?” he asks, gesturing at the food.

“Hm?” Anders looks at the sandwich and swallows visibly before shaking his head. “No, I-I'm fine. Thanks.”

“It's just gonna go to waste otherwise.” The lie is as easy as breathing. “I picked up lunch for my esteemed guest, but she wasn't interested.”

Anders smirks. “She didn't seem your type, Varric.”

“And how would you know my type?”

“You seem to have a preference for the ones who could put a bolt into your enemies at forty paces.”

Varric laughs and pushes the sandwich towards Anders. He _earned_ lunch with that joke. “True enough,” he says. “C'mon, eat. Don't make me tell Hawke that you're starving yourself for The Cause again.”

Anders's face colors slightly at the mere mention of Hawke's name, but he sits down and accepts the food without argument. He looks tired, as always, but by the time he's finished eating he's sitting up straighter and his smile comes easier. Varric considers it a job well done. He'll have someone run a note down to Anders once the lyrium comes in-- the man needs to get out of the slums every now and then.

“Thanks for lunch, Varric,” Anders says as he heads for the door. “I have to pick up a few things from Lirene before I head back.” He hesitates for a second.

“I'll tell Hawke you said hello,” Varric offers, and he grins when Anders blushes again. The yearning is almost tangible. The author in him hopes it'll last; the friend hopes that the two of them will sort themselves out sooner rather than later. This could get _painful_ if it drags on much longer. Varric waits until he’s sure that Anders has left the building, then heads downstairs for a bowl of the Hanged Man’s soup and a flagon of ale to make it palatable.

Things are quiet for almost a full hour; Varric ignores his guild business out of spite and spends the time editing the next chapter of _Hard in Hightown_ instead. He doesn't look up when he hears Fenris's heavy footfalls in the hallway. The elf prefers to believe that he's stealthy, and Varric allows the delusion. “Varric,” Fenris says by way of greeting.

“Hey, Broody.” Varric looks up and grins. “Something I can do for you?”

Fenris shakes his head. “Just dropping off the coin I owe you from last week’s game,” he says, setting a small pouch on the end of the table. “And I wanted to... thank you, for that tip about the mercenary work.”

“They hired you?” At Fenris's nod, Varric smiles. “Told you they would.” Fenris doesn't handle idle time well, and Varric knows a few mercenaries who are amenable to bribes or blackmail. Not that Fenris lacks the skills to get the job on his own, but the tattoos and pointy ears tend to make some people uncomfortable. Varric had just smoothed the way.

“I will be leaving tomorrow,” Fenris says, lips quirking up in a faint smile. “I wanted to settle my debt before I left.”

“Aw, you'll be coming back,” Varric says. “No need to get melodramatic.”

Fenris snorts. “Of course I will,” he says. “I simply didn't want you to think I was skipping town to avoid payment. I'd hate to have to murder any of your hired thugs.”

Varric sighs in mock offense and shakes his head. “Spies, thugs-- what sort of business do you think I'm running here?”

“A very efficient one,” Fenris replies dryly. “I should return within a week.”

“I'll let Hawke know.”

Fenris nods and slips from the room. Varric's barely gotten through another page of editing when he hears Hawke enter the tavern. It's not actually Hawke that he hears, but the ambient noise from downstairs changes in a certain way: there's a drop in volume, then a sharp spike, as everyone instinctively looks towards her, then catches themselves and turns away. Hawke's charisma is gravitational, pulling people in without the slightest effort on her part.

It's why she has to be the hero in his stories.

Varric sets his writing aside-- Hawke always tries to read the drafts before they're done-- and listens for her footsteps outside his door. Light and slow today, almost hesitant, and Varric puts on a smile when she leans around the door. “Hey, Hawke,” he says with a grin. “What brings you all the way down here?”

She grins back and shrugs. “Do I have to have a reason to come see my favorite dwarf?”

“Of course not.” Varric pauses. “I mean, you usually do, but you know my door's always open.” Another pause for dramatic effect. “Unless there's trouble at the Bone Pit, in which case, I'm terribly busy and can't be disturbed.”

Hawke laughs. “No, the mine's been quiet... although now that I've said that, I'm sure Hubert will show up tomorrow in a panic to tell me about the latest giant bat infestation or whatever.” She sighs and drops into a chair. “Just wanted to stop in, see how everyone's doing. I've been so busy, I feel like I've barely seen any of you since the move.”

The words are light, but Varric can hear the underlying plea. With Bethany gone, it's just Hawke and her mother and the dog in that big house, far removed from her friends-- not just by location, but by standing. She's _somebody_ now, not just a refugee, but the woman who's going to reclaim and remake the Amell name. Everyone up there expects her to be part of that world, even if she's much more at home in a place like the Hanged Man.

She's been absent lately, and she knows it. She wants Varric to tell her that her friends still care, that they miss her, that they want her around. That's the thing about gravity: Hawke doesn't even realize it's there, holding all of them together. She assumes they could drift away. Varric knows better.

“Oh, they're doing well enough,” he says. “I've seen them around here and there. You know,” he straightens up, as if the idea's just come to him, “we haven't had a night of cards here for a while. And Broody's leaving tomorrow on a mercenary gig-- ought to give him a proper send-off, right?”

Hawke brightens visibly. “I don't have any plans tonight,” she says. “Think we can round everyone up in a few hours?”

“Of course,” Varric replies. “I could send out notes, or we could just walk it.” Hawke perks up, just a little, at the latter suggestion, and Varric smiles inwardly. “I've been cooped up in here almost all day with guild nonsense. Wouldn't mind getting out into the city for a bit.”

“Sure!” Hawke grins. “Wanna head out now? I don't want to be wandering the streets after dark.”

“You bet.” Varric puts his draft back in his desk. He hasn't touched the stack of letters and notes from his various businesses, but he doesn't really care. This is the important work, really. He slides the straps of Bianca's holster across his chest and turns to her. “All right, Hawke. Lead on.”


End file.
